Running Away
by nOnymOus
Summary: Someone is on the run, away from the cops. He could easily shake them off but decides not to. Why? SLASH odd pairing, i'm warning you now, AU


Warning: ODD pairing. When I say ODD, I mean ODD. I won't give a clue though, you'll find out in the first line xD. Promise not to turn back if you don't like the pairing xDD And.. PU, I think that's what it's called

Warning2: my past tense. Tis wrong, I already know that xPP

Woot! My first BeyBlade fanfic! xDD I can imagine two people who might be proud of me ;D Readers, forgive me if I get the details wrong. I don't watch the show (except for GRev, a bit of first season and of VForce) and don't know much about the events. All I know is that Borris is a baaaaaaaad man.

I dedicate this to my two beyblade expert friends: Butterfly Winged Rat who inspired me with the plot (so you can blame her too xD) and thejohnnymckiltsproduction because I mainly promised her this fanfic xD.

Disclaimed

--

My name is Boris. Just Boris. I keep my last name locked away from other people, just like my past. I am on a run. Away from my past, my crimes, away from those strong arms that always comforte—

I try to suppress a sob but fail miserably. I am on the run yet I does not want to be anymore. It is tiring and lonely. I miss him. If I could, I'd go back.

Go back to his arms.

--

My name is Boris. I could have changed my name. In fact, I probably should have. However, my inner mind stubbornly tells me no. Yes, I know that this will only help the authorities in my capture but, frankly, I don't give a damn. I leave trails of crumbs everywhere. They attract people but I also hope it will also attract him. It has always been for him. I want to be found by him, hold me close, wipe my tears, and I want to be able to kiss those cherry red lips.

I choke on my sandwich and thump my chest to get it out. I swallow and turn to look at the sea of people walking by. Some stare at me and take in my weird, purple hair, big nose, pale complexion and sideburns. I smirk confidently as I turn to leave.

The look of shock and panic on the people's faces still echoes in my mind.

Ah well, anything to lead him to me.

--

My name is Boris. That is the name I give the others hoodlums as I enters a warehouse transformed to shelter wanted criminals. I had to stop myself from wrinkling my nose in disgust. It was dusty, cobweb-y and dark. I hate the dark because it reminds me of my past. I would rather bask in the sunlight with him thankyouverymuch.

But I try to accept it as home anyway. Wait no, home is wherever his heart is so he was just in a.. warehouse.

I spend the first night alone. I am left alone to huddle in a dusty corner. I close my eyes and will him back to my image. Naked, writhing under my body, suppressing moans but failing— I shiver in the dark. The very thought of him makes me weak.

I silently pray, though I've given up on gods long ago, that he will find me.

--

My name is Boris. I scream my name into the air. Three months, five days and two hours have passed yet to no avail. Am I this good or is he that dumb? Clues are scattered like sugar rainbows yet he haven't found me yet.

I sink to the ground, tears trying not to spill. It hurts. The only thing I can do is to hide yet I still manage to leave behind signs. Why can't he seem to see that? The authorities were so close to finding me yesterday.. he is smarter. Why didn't he find me yet?

I try to think of what he would say if he was in this situation, which brought me laughter. Him, the epitome of kindness, being chased by the police? That is a very unlikely possibility. He has the biggest heart I know. The fact that we've been together for three years is evidence of his ability to puke love. I realize that I should believe in his, our, love.

Heartened, I stand up look at the starless night hoping that somewhere, he is able to hear me.

--

My name is Boris. That is how I introduce myself to a new residence in this small wasteland. The newcomer shakes my hand heartily and says, in his thick Russian accent, that his name is Voltaire and wow, it's such a small world to meet another Russian here. I roll my eyes; that's not exactly a nice thing to know about Russians.

For the first time ever, I have someone to talk to, which is good, because I am not using my mouth and words anymore. I am spending months, saving up my voice for him and I cannot believe I am giving up my sacrifice for a stranger I barely know.

Tonight, Voltaire asks me if I want to sit next to him by the fire. I decline politely and huddle by my corner. Looking into my countryman's eyes, I am reminded of him. The fire of life that bursn within them; no, I cannot stand it.

I am trying to force myself to give him up.

--

My name is Borris. That is the method I use to convince myself. I've spent three months trying to forget all about him but I just can't. I am Borris, I can do anything. Why can't I do this one, miniscule task?

At the same time, I've spent three months trying to avoid Voltaire but to no avail. He traps me with a glance, with a clever maneuver and I cannot refuse his request. He doesn't ask much: conversations, friendship, company, sometimes a mindless fuck if we're up to it. Small things. They help me with accomplishing my task, but, at the same time, I want to loathe him. Feelings are stirring in my stomach, I hate these feelings.

They remind me of him.

Once, Voltaire asked me about him. He caught me off guard; I never told any_one_ about him. He casually explains that he once heard me saying his name during a fuck session. I nearly choked on my own saliva and proceeded to apologize but he cut me off with a quick smile. He told me it was alright, it could happen to anyone. So why don't you tell me about this Stanley(1)?

--

My name is Borris. That is the name I confirm with the police. I have decided to submit myself to them. After all, my efforts, all my efforts, were wasted. He never was going to come back to me.

Voltaire had come up to me the day before with a clipping from a tabloid. The headlines screamed my death sentence: BEYBLADE CHAIRMAN ENGAGED TO CHAMPION'S GRANDSON.

He told me he'd go after me, he'd wait, he'd never leave. Guess I was wrong. Why should I continue doing the same?

Voltaire had tried to dissuade me. My fellow Russian whispered things to me that would normally melt me; but not now.

Not ever.

--

END!

You people are probably happy I'm done, aren't you? xDD I am too, you know. As much as I loved writing this, I was disgusted xPP.

No flamers saying crap like "eeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!11!!! what kind of fucked up mind do you have?!". My mind is not fucked up, I know the pairing is ew, I warned you this was an odd pairing.

The plot isn't what I originally had in mind but it kinda wrote on its own '.

(1) Is Stanley really Mr. Dickinson's name? O.o


End file.
